


Sacrifice

by theundeadsiren (rhoen)



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Language Barrier, M/M, Military, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-02 16:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4067524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhoen/pseuds/theundeadsiren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Separated from his unit and alone in a deserted, heavily shell-damaged town, Rick is unbearably cold and hungry. He just wants some shelter, but ends up finding much more than that.</p><p>This is about a moment of compassion and kindness that changes the lives of two young men forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to mention the nationalities I had in mind for this, because it really doesn't matter - Rick and Kieren are enemies quite simply because someone somewhere decided war existed between their two countries. I think this is a difficult subject to write about not just because it's hard to do justice to what the characters would go through, but also because people tend to try and see one side as 'right' and the other as 'wrong', which isn't how it works. Some people are truly terrible human beings, but most people, on their own, aren't.
> 
> Rick and Kieren are also very young in this - seventeen and sixteen respectively.
> 
> There are probably a lot of mistakes throughout. I have tried reading over and fixing it, but yeah... I need a beta.

**You may not take this fic and edit or reupload it - in whole or in part - without my express permission. This includes translations.**

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Thank you for respecting my wishes

* * *

 

He’s cold. Each step is somehow still agonising, although his feet are no longer there; he can’t really feel them. His grip on the rifle is the same – even through thin gloves his fingers feel as if they have become a part of the cold steel, and he can no longer tell where he ends and the rifle begins. All he knows is that his grip is not loose enough for the gun to fall, and he focuses on that. He is not too weak.

Rick’s breath billows in clouds as he climbs the wooden staircase, each heavy footstep a monumental effort echoing far too loudly in the stagnant air. At least the biting wind struggles to reach him here. He fights to keep quiet and still his tread and chattering teeth – if there is anyone around, they will be here, and he must hear them first. It is the best building left standing – two floors high and far less damaged than its neighbours – and he wants it for himself. He has no idea where his brothers are, nor the enemy, and there is no gunfire in the distance to guide him – the world is silent.

His senses are dulled by exhaustion and the intolerable cold, but as he reaches the landing, something causes Rick’s skin to prickle, and the notion that someone or something is lurking behind the door seizes him. Raising the rifle with achingly slow effort, he tries to calm his breathing as he steps closer to the door. It is ajar, but he can’t find enough strength to kick is open, instead using the muzzle of the rifle to slowly push at it. It takes all his effort not to flinch as the neglected hinges creak, the noise deafening in the oppressive silence.

The room has lost most of one wall and has long since been torn apart, but it’s not the fragmented furniture or scattered masonry he notices – it’s the young man curled up in the corner of the room. He had woken at the sound of the door opening, and now stared up Rick, wide-eyed and vulnerable.

Rick can’t move. He had expected to come across the enemy at some point, but not like this. The young man’s gloved hands are slowly raised in a sign of surrender, but Rick still can’t move. He can’t make himself squeeze the trigger. He should. He has to. This man is the enemy, and it is Rick’s duty to take his life if he wants to save his own. He’s sure he’s killed before – he will happily boast that at least a hundred enemies must have fallen by his hand, for he’s fired at least a hundred shots. But never like this. He never saw those bullets hit their mark. He’s never been close enough to see the face of the man he’s about to kill staring up at him with such vulnerability. Not even a man: a boy, perhaps his own age, with dirty dark blond hair peeking out from beneath a fur hat, and a wide, pleading stare, his attractive face lined with dirt and exhaustion.

Rick knows he’s a coward, because in that moment, he lowers his aching arms and simply stares. He doesn’t understand what he is doing. He feels cold and worn through, his mind frayed. He cannot take the final step and do what must be done, because somehow it’s not even an option. He realises that he is weak.

“Are there others?” he asks, his tongue heavy and ungraceful in his mouth, unused after two days of solitude. The young man is still staring up at him, uncomprehending. Rick glanced pointedly towards the ceiling, and when his eyes shift back to the guy, he sees him shaking his head in answer. The thought of climbing another flight of stairs is what persuades Rick to take his chances here and hope he’ll hear anyone coming, rather than leave this guy, who he supposes is now his prisoner, and risk him reaching for a gun or knife to stab in Rick’s back. It’s only when Rick casts a critical eye over the young man that he picks up on the way he’s breathing, and also sitting. His right arm has sagged lower than his left – his hands are still raised – and breathing clearly pains him. The thick coat he wears gives away no injury, but Rick narrows his eyes as he realises something is wrong. Or the guy is pretending that something is wrong.

Rick raises his rifle again, although doesn’t trust his finger to rest on the trigger, and steps close enough to use the muzzle to shift aside the folds of the jacket and reveal the dark, stained clothing beneath it. Tentatively, the young man lowers his hands, looking up at Rick as he does as if terrified he will be reprimanded for his movement. Rick doesn’t nothing, though, and slowly clothing is lifted and a red-stained rag falls away to reveal pale skin dirtied with blood, and an entry wound on the outer edge of the guy’s right ribcage that clearly shows he’s not a threat. The wound is at least a few hours old.

Rick steps back, conflicted. He doesn’t know what to do. The guy lets go of the clothing, which falls back into place, but his hands remain curls again his chest in a defensive pose. It was a mistake to look up at the guy’s face. As Rick does, he meets the young man’s eyes, and he sees fear there. Rick realises he feels afraid too, and he doesn’t understand why. They both know this guy will probably die, and that should strengthen the case for Rick leaving, or for at least putting the guy out of his misery. He’s the enemy. It is Rick’s duty to kill him. But he just can’t.

Something Rick cannot explain or name causes him to move closer again, placing his rifle to the side as he kneels next to his enemy. With difficulty, he manages to peel off his gloves, discarding them as he shifts the clothing out of the way so he can see the wound again. The skin around the edge is dark and crusted with blood, but fresh blood is still seeping from where the bullet pierced through the guy’s chest. Rick asks, using his own finger to point at and then jab into his own chest, hand then moving behind and a little to the side where he makes an exploding gesture as best he can with sore, stiff joints, if the bullet went all the way through. The guy shakes his head, and Rick’s gaze falls back to the mess of blood. He isn’t sure what to do. He knows a lot about causing wounds, but next to nothing about fixing them.

“Water?” he asks, glancing up again to see if the guy has understood. His own flask is empty. The word is similar enough between their languages, but the young man shakes his head. He then says something, which sounds like ‘alcohol’, and tries to shift. Despite paling at the effort, the guy reaches for a bottle of spirits that Rick hadn’t notice lying amongst the debris beside him. He doesn’t understand why the guy hasn’t at least had a drink of the stuff, until he takes it in his own hands and tried to free the cap. It won’t move. His hands are useless, the attempts to grip hurting. Frustrated at his ineffectualness, Rick stares at the bottle, and then pushes away from the other guy a little, finding what he needs. Resting the bottle on the edge of a piece of masonry, he uses another to smash the top of the bottle. Some of the liquid spills out, but most of it remains.

Despite the pain it obviously causes, the guy lets Rick work. Rick takes the used rag and soaks the cleanest part of it with the spirits, wiping away the blood around the wound. His sore fingers make it difficult, and he’s far too clumsy and slow, but he focuses on what he is doing, concentrating on completing the task and not dropping the bottle. When the wound is passably clean, he looks up at the guy’s drawn face, waiting for brown eyes to open and meet his before he tilts the bottle in question. With an almost imperceptible nod, permission is given, and Rick lets a careful amount splash directly onto the wound. To his credit, the young man doesn’t cry out, but he clenches his jaw impossibly hard and looks close to passing out. Seeing no point in drawing it out, Rick spills a little more onto the wound, watching it carry away fresh blood. It will do.

One of the few useful things he has left, alongside an empty canteen and his bayonet, is a bandage, and Rick carefully fumbles for it, working it open and pressing it to the wound as best he can. It’s hard to wrap properly around the guy’s chest, and Rick’s not sure he’s doing a very good job, but the bandage stays in place when he pulls back, seemingly tight enough. Gently, Rick pulls the guy’s clothing back into place, exerting force of will to get his fingers to comply with the simple task.

“There,” he pronounces, pulling back. His fingers are beyond painful, and he cradles his hands to his chest, curling in on the frozen digits as he shifts where he sits, moving his legs and wondering just how bad a shape he is in himself, as his feet are almost numb with pain.

The guy speaks softly, although Rick can’t understand the words. When he looks up, Rick finds hands reaching out towards his, which he slowly offers, wondering if this is what was being asked of him. It is, and his hands are carefully taken in ones that may or may not be warm – he can’t tell. The guy looks at Rick’s fingers closely, his thumb stroking over skin that’s red raw beneath the tint of blood. Rick doesn’t want to look; he doesn’t want to notice how the skin on his left ring finger and both pinkies is as pale as the skin on a corpse, and slightly mottled. The young man is looking at them with concern, and Rick tries to force down the rising fear of what will happen. They’re not that bad, he tells himself. They’re not blackened and dead. He can worry about them later.

He quickly pulls his hands back, looking around the room as he tugs on the gloves he discarded earlier. The blown-out window and missing wall show that the sky has darkened a little, and Rick supposes it’s slightly better that he won’t spend this night alone. Unless the guy dies, something dark reminds him.

“I’m going to look around,” he announces, getting unsteadily to his feet and automatically gripping his rifle to him. The guy watches him, seemingly not having understood. Rick adds a few more words anyway. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

For a moment he wonders if he should leave his bayonet with the guy. Rick didn’t check to see if he was hiding a weapon, but he decides it doesn’t matter – Rick helped the guy, and can’t imagine being stabbed in the back. The only worry is someone else making their way to the building, but Rick will hopefully hear them before they get to the first floor. Backing out of the room, he glances at the two other doors on the landing, then at the stairs leading up to the second floor, deciding to look there first.

On the top floor there are three more doorways. Two are bedrooms and one a bathroom. Rick knows it’s pointless, but he tries a tap anyway. The pipes groan, but nothing came out, and Rick shuts it off as quickly as his fingers will allow, alarmed by the noise. In the bedrooms he has better luck. One is completely useless as the wall gone, exposing it to the elements – although there are some items of clothing he thinks could help pad the guy’s wound and a heavy curtain covering a mirror that could be used as a blanket. He takes them, and goes to check the second bedroom, which is in better shape. Although the window is blown out, the room has one of the most inviting things Rick has seen all day – a mattress. The bedframe is broken, tipping the mattress half onto the floor, but the complete walls and roof means it is dry. Momentarily relinquishing his hold on his rifle, Rick sets his found items down and wrestles the mattress fully onto the floor, one edge against the wall, and tests the feel of it by kneeling on it. It feels amazing, and it’s only the thought of the guy downstairs that stops him falling onto it and remaining there indefinitely.

Back on the first floor, Rick pushes into the only room he knows. The young man looks pale, but he looks up as soon as Rick entered the room.

“The room upstairs is better. Can you get up?”

It’s pointless talking, but Rick does it anyway, gesturing to the floor above as he does. The guy tilts his head and looks somewhat confused by Rick’s words, and then says something. Rick is sure he is being called an idiot, but more importantly, the guy starts trying to get up. It clearly hurts, so Rick quickly ducks down to help him, still holding his rifle in one hand, and the two of them slowly start making their way out of the room and up the stairs. The weight against Rick becomes heavier and heavier, until the guy makes a noise and then tries to lean against the wall for support. Rick doesn’t let go.

“Come on, I’ve got you,” he gently encourages. The weight isn’t too bad – he can probably carry this guy – it’s just where his wrist is being tightly grasped that hurts. And his feet are incredibly painful. It’s slow going, but they eventually reach the bedroom and Rick helps the guy down onto the mattress so he can lean against the wall. Rick checks the guy’s bandage, which is starting to show red but is not completely soaked, and then turns to the clothes he found, taking what was once a lady’s nightdress and holding it out as he gestures by pulling his hands apart as he would if ripping the garment into strips – an action he knows he can’t do. The guy takes it, and Rick stands to leave. He hasn’t checked the downstairs properly – no more than a glance when he first entered the building – and they need water. He doubts there will be food.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he says again, taking his rifle. The guy, having removed his gloves, is already tearing at the nightdress, and gives a small nod at Rick’s words.

Back on the first floor, Rick checks the other two rooms. In a musty wardrobe drawer he finds more old clothing, and drapes it over his arm, carrying it downstairs as he goes to find the kitchen again. First finding the drawing room, he eyes the handful of books that have fallen onto the floor, and leaves without touching anything. In the kitchen, clothing and gun on the counter, he opens and closes drawers and cupboards, finding two unlabelled tins hiding at the back of the highest cupboard, a spoon and a carving knife that had fallen down the back of the dresser, and two old cooking pots. There are also laundry items, but Rick ignores them, carrying the two cooking pots out into the yard, the whole time wishing he could find a tin opener and perhaps some coal, but all that is left where the coal was once stored is a thin layer of fine black powder and a dirty tin bucket, which he decides he will add to the collection he will take back upstairs.

For the first time since coming here, Rick is grateful for snow. Taking his gloves off again and stuffing them into his pocket, he scoops snow into the cooking pots, filling them both quickly and packing the fine white powder in. When he’s done, he leaves one, carrying the other between crooked arm and chest as he makes his way upstairs, taking his rifle and some clothing with him. In the upstairs bedroom, alert brown eyes watch him as he places the items down and glances around – already broken furniture from other rooms will perhaps make better firewood, if it’s not too damp.

It doesn’t take long – two more trips – to get the other stuff upstairs, including the books from the drawing room, and to secure the doors and windows as best he can. If someone comes in, Rick wants there to be enough noise for him to know about it. On his last trip back upstairs, he stops by the first floor bedroom to collect what is left of the bottle of whisky and fill the dirty bucket with splintered wood. He doesn’t want to have to come downstairs again for a good while.

Returning to the bedroom, he finds the young man struggling to apply one of the torn strips as an extra layer of bandaging, and as he moves to help, the state of Rick’s own hands, which he’d been trying to ignore, becomes painfully obvious. Although they both manage to secure one length around the guy’s slender torso, Rick inhales sharply and fights back stinging tears as he clumsily hits his fingers off of the wall, and the sensation won’t fade. The mixture of pain and numbness is frighteningly disturbing, and he wants nothing more than to make the biggest fire possible in the hearth, the chances of the smoke being seen in the slowly fading afternoon light be damned.

“I’m going to get more wood,” Rick explains, his expression drawn tight as he picks a fragment out of the tin bucket to clarify, deciding this time not to bother taking his rifle. He wishes the guy hadn’t torn the dress up – it would make carrying broken bits of furniture easier. The curtain will have to do. As Rick makes to go, the guy shifts with difficulty, pulling the bucket closer and tipping the contents out. Rick lets him, as the guy is already reaching into his own pockets and pulling out a lighter, a soft cough rising in his throat. Rick frowns. It must be the dust, he decides, not wanting to look any closer at their situation. The guy will be fine.

As he gathers what are hopefully dry fragments of a wardrobe that was damaged in whatever blast hit the house, Rick tries not to think about how he somehow needs the guy to be okay. He isn’t some faceless enemy; he’s so very human, and Rick thinks about the expressive wide eyes that looked at him in fear and terror and pain. The guy isn’t a monster – he’s no more a monster than Rick is.

Back at the guy’s side, Rick carefully aims what he’s gathered into a pile, and doesn’t bother dusting the curtain off for splinters. He kneels, looking at the tin bucket that now holds a few delicate flames which have been carefully fed just enough splinters and torn pages not to overwhelm them. The young man is sitting on the edge of the mattress with his side against the wall, and he says something as he gestures as the space beside him, which Rick moves to fill, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Now sitting, he focuses on undoing the belt around his waist, letting it fall away. When he is done, he finds his hands being taken again, the guy speaking gently as he holds them. It hurts. Rick wants to pull back, but he weathers the touch, letting his hands be held and then guided to hover a careful distance from the fire, which needs more fuel. The guy adds a few more broken fragments to it, wincing in pain as he leans forwards. He then holds his hands close to Rick’s, testing the temperature, and moves Rick away from the flame a little, obviously explaining what he is doing despite the fact Rick can’t understand. Rick doesn’t mind though. The sound of the guy’s voice is soothing, and when he falls silent, Rick wishes there was a way to get him to speak again.

When the guy moves to undo Rick’s boots, he tenses and shakes his head almost violently. He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to know. Nightmarish images of gangrenous toes strike him. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to lose his toes or his feet. He’s not ready for that. He can still walk, so he’ll cope. He’ll be fine. He’ll manage.

Words that are probably kind encouragement are being spoken, but do little to take the edge off of Rick’s fear. While he doesn’t pull any further away, he is still shaking his head.

“They’re fine,” he insists. The guy argues gently in return, although Rick can’t understand any of the reasons that may or may not be being said. When hands reach for the lacing of his boots again, Rick pushes them away, his own hurting at the contact.

It’s stupid, Rick realises, how easily he gives in. One simple word as the guy looks at him with pleading eyes, and his defences crumble. It’s not the fact that the guy wants to help that makes the difference, it’s the fact Rick suddenly realises he trusts this stranger – he trusts him enough to expose his injuries and weaknesses, which careful fingers are now revealing. As his boots are pulled off, Rick doesn’t try as hard as he normally would to hold back tears at the terrifying pain. Everything is so cold; how can he still feel? Maybe he’s just imagining it. He must be imagining it.

Rick doesn’t even care how it looks when he closes his eyes against the reality of what is happening. He doesn’t want to look, and doesn’t really plan to, but the guy is talking and has moved away from Rick a fraction, and he opens his eyes against his better judgement. He almost laughs, relief flooding him as his worst fears go unrealised. His skin is red and his toes are pale, just like three of his fingers, but there is no sign of dead, blackened skin. Rick finds himself actually smiling.

“I thought I was going to have to cut them off,” he half laughs. The guy looks round from where he’s sorting out another strip of the repurposed nightdress, holding one of Rick’s thick woollen socks up and saying something with a grin. Rick imagines he’s praising the quality of the garment. He then watches as the guy uses the strip of cloth to secure the socks to the outside of the coal bucket to heat and dry them. Rick wouldn’t have thought of that.

And then the guy holds his hand out towards Rick’s belt, coughing as he points. Not sure what he wants, Rick pushes the whole thing closer. When the guy has it, he works the bayonet loose and takes the canteen from the bread bag. The guy pauses long enough to ask in gestures for Rick to pass the carving knife, and then turns to the canteen, discarding the cup and working the felt off. Rick watches, suddenly understanding what he’s doing as the guy starts stuffing snow into it. The carving knife and bayonet are placed across the coal bucket and the cap of the flask refitted before it is balanced on the two blades. Rick looks at the guy and gives him an approving smile – he wouldn’t have thought of that either.

While the water melts, the guy releases Rick’s socks from where they were held to the side of the bucket and allows Rick to put them on again. It hurts. The garments are now dry and warm, but it still hurts. Rick’s skin prickles with pain, and he has to remind himself that it’s not as bad as it could be. He hasn’t been shot. Looking over at his companion, Rick nods towards the injury. As the heavy jacket and clothing is moved aside to show Rick, he’s grateful there’s just a small amount of blood showing.

When their attention shifts back to the balanced flask, Rick watches as the guy he flicks it noisily onto the floor, tapping at it. It’s obviously still hot to the touch, so Rick expects them to wait a few minutes for it to cool enough to handle – what he doesn’t expect is for it to be wrapped in a layer of dirty old clothing and handed to him. The guy’s eyes flicker pointedly to Rick’s feet as he passes it over, and Rick realises it’s a crudely made hot water bottle. He’s completely surprised, but doesn’t hesitate to place it between his feet and use what’s left from the pile of clothing to cover his feet even further. His skin is stinging in a new way, and he can only hope it’s a good thing.

The guy simply uses the cup to melt snow, holding it over the flame with one hand while his other adds another few pieces of wood to the fire. Rick shakes his head when it’s offered, letting the guy drink first. He clumsily holds the cup when it’s passed over, and finds the water melted but still cold. He’d rather have the whisky, but as he looks round and reaches for it, he hears a definite ‘no’. Not sure if it was at him moving or his target, Rick takes the bottle in his aching hand and shows it to the guy, who shakes his head in clear disapproval. He points at Rick’s hands and feet, and shakes his head again. The point is made. Rick sets the bottle down, and the guy takes it and moves it close to the wall, away from Rick’s reach and also where it can’t easily be knocked over by either of them.

The little colour that seemed to have returned to the guy’s face drains away as the guy shifts from the mattress, carefully moving round the fire buckets and shuffling on his knees to the rest of the items Rick gathered, his hand on his chest the whole time. Kneeling, he seems to take a moment to gather himself and even his breathing, before looking first at the books, and then at the tins. Useless, Rick stays where he is and just watches as the guy takes the spoon and starts pressing and sawing at the lid of one of the tins. He wishes he’d been able to find something they could actually eat. And then, to his complete surprise, the tin lid starts to give. Rick grins across the small fire.

“How the hell did you do that?”

When the guy smiles back, Rick doesn’t think the expression makes the guy look younger, just more beautiful. It confuses him, and he looks away hurriedly, deciding that his hands are probably too close to the fire. He moves them back. After a long pause he hears the guy go back to his task, and resists the urge to look up again.

When the guy moves back to the mattress, he pushes the now opened tins within reach, and Rick sees that one is filled with tomatoes, the other with citrus segments. In the words his companion are saying, he thinks he hears the word ‘grapefruit’, and decides he can wait to find out what it really is.

Rick can’t help noticing the way they seem to need each other. His hands hurt, but he can help wrap another layer of bandaging around the guy’s wound. What he can’t do is open the lid on his flask to tip the water out and refill it with snow – nor can he feel the temperature, as everything seems to burn. He lets the guy refresh his makeshift hot water bottle, and they drink the warm water that was poured into the cup. After that, the guy uses the bent spoon to eat a mouthful of tomato, his expression pinching slightly. When it’s Rick’s turn, he finds out why – the tomatoes are sharp. Still, it’s food, and they slowly finish it.

The fire hasn’t consumed as much wood as Rick expected. By the time they’ve eaten all of what, annoyingly for Rick, did turn out to be grapefruit, there is still enough fuel for another hour or two of fire but the sky is dark enough for the light to start becoming a problem. Dousing it becomes something to consider, but Rick would rather not chuck the liquid from the tins into it so they can relight it in the morning. After making a third and final hot water bottle, Rick decides the best thing to do is place the cooking pot on top of the bucket, starving the flames of air. It doesn’t quite fit, and there is enough of a gap for the fire to keep burning, but it hides most of the light and the snow is melting, so Rick figures it will do. It will burn out soon anyway.

Putting his boots back on to go through to the bathroom and relieve himself feels just as painful as when he took them off, but Rick notices with a small amount of relief that he can at least tell that his feet are cold now, the warmth of the heated flask now gone. He knees down to help his companion up, and as the guy’s arm rests over Rick’s shoulder, he pauses, asking something he realises he should have done at least an hour ago.

“What’s your name?”

The guy just looks at him, confused, so Rick points at himself. “Rick Macy.”

“Oh, Kieren.”

“Kieren,” Rick repeats, testing the feel of the name in his mouth. He gives a small encouraging smile as he focuses back on what they’re doing. “Ready?”

They make it to the bathroom, but each step hurts. Rick doesn’t make a noise of complaint though, his hold on Kieren staying steady until Kieren makes it clear he can stand on his own to relieve himself. When it’s Rick’s turn, he can feel how cold his own fingers are, and as soon as they get back to the room he wants to hold onto whatever heat might be left in the flask. Getting there, though, he slips up and lets a grunt of pain escape as he quickly shifts to catch Kieren’s weight as the other guy falters. Rushed, concerned words spill from the guy’s lips, but Rick ignores them. He would even if he could understand them.

When they reach the mattress and lie down, Rick arranges the small pile of clothing over their feet and the curtain across their bodies as a makeshift blanket. They both have their gloves, and as Rick pulls his on, Kieren shifts, turning with difficulty onto his side to face Rick. His hands close gently around Rick’s, offering warmth as his gaze flickers to Rick’s face. It’s not yet completely dark, and Rick can see the way Kieren looks at him, but he can’t quite name it. It makes his body feel flushed, and as they lie facing each other, Kieren’s breath warm against Rick’s face, he realises the closeness isn’t at all unpleasant.

“I’m glad I found you,” Rick says softly in the space between them, “I wish you could understand me, but I’m glad all the same.”

Kieren seems to consider the words, before giving a soft smile and speaking. Rick listens, wishing this barrier wasn’t between them. Nothing else seems to be, and he’s glad for the warmth of their shared body heat. He’s glad for the help Kieren has given him, and for his clever, ingenious thinking. He’s glad for the gentle tone Kieren speaks in and the way he looks so openly at Rick.

Rick is glad he didn’t shoot this guy.

“I suppose we have to go back to our units, don’t we?” Rick says when Kieren falls silent. He realises he can say absolutely anything to this guy. Like a confessional. He quickly scraps that thought, his mind conjuring up images of all the ruined churches and great cathedrals he’d seen and imagined after the stories he’d heard. He doesn’t want anything about Kieren to be ruined.

“I don’t want anyone to shoot you. Again.” Rick admits softly. “I wonder if you’ll be sent home to convalesce. Maybe this whole war will be over before you’re put near a gun again.”

If he lived. Rick suddenly feared falling asleep. What if he woke to find Kieren’s paleness had become fixed, his life slowly seeping from him while Rick was unconscious by his side? Abruptly sitting up, Rick leant as carefully as he could over Kieren, reaching for a strip of cloth and a rag to add another layer to those already around Kieren’s chest. This would be tight enough to lay his mind at ease.

Kieren was slowly sitting up, confused. He coughed a little at the effort, or maybe the thin layer of smoke that had filled the room, but let Rick push his clothing aside again. Rick’s fingers work marginally better than before, and he folds the rag as best he can so the bunching won’t be uncomfortable, and then secures it in place. The other layers looked fine, but it makes Rick feel better to add one more and know it’s firmly tied in place.

“Maybe this is what it’s like to have a brother,” Rick wonders aloud, unused to caring like this. Perhaps he would worry about his friends this much if they were in the same situation, but he knows their proximity wouldn’t feel as inviting as Kieren’s does. It’s definitely Kieren, the guy Rick should have put a bullet in the second he saw him. Rick’s glad he failed in that respect.

They lie down again, this time to sleep. It takes a while though. Kieren speaks softly, his hands once again trying to give Rick some warmth. Rick wants to draw his knees up, but bashes into Kieren’s legs as he does, breaking the flow of Kieren’s words for a few seconds as they work out how to fit comfortably together. They manage it, and Rick listens to Kieren until the guy stops, pushing at Rick and clearly showing that it’s his turn. Rick doesn’t know what to say, so he talks about home, and how it’s so different here, so cold. He doesn’t like the cold, or grapefruit, and tells Kieren that.

“But I like you,” he whispers. “I wish we were on the same side.”

It’s not quite a conversation, but they talk back and forth a few more times before exhaustions gets the better of them and they fall silent. There’s just enough light left for Rick to make out Kieren’s features and see his eyes fall closed and stay closed, his breathing evening.

“Sleep well,” he says softly, seeing Kieren give the smallest smile at his words, before Rick allows himself to fall asleep too.

.

Rick wakes with a start, immediately alert and reaching for his rifle. He doesn’t find it before the source of the noise that woke him becomes apparent – in the dim early morning light he can see Kieren’s crumpled outline on the floor between the mattress and the door. Rick doesn’t even have time to wonder why he’s over there before he is at the guy’s side, gently trying to help him up. Kieren is gripping at his chest, gasping in pain. He obviously fell. As Rick tries to shift him, he gestures at his lower half, and the reason he was up is clear. The distance to the bathroom seems unrealistic, so Rick just shakes his head and tries to get Kieren back to bed. When Kieren repeats the gesture, speaking urgently, Rick gives up and looks around the room. The options aren’t that great, but the cooking pot of half melted snow seems like the best bet, so he takes it and goes to the window, tipping the contents out. Kieren looks unhappily at it when Rick offers it, but doesn’t protest. Or at least the words he utters don’t sound like a protest, more like resignation. When he’s done, Kieren allows Rick to help him back to the mattress. It’s still early, so Rick doesn’t know if he should be alarmed by how tired Kieren looks – he feels tired too, now that the shock of his waking is fading – but the way Kieren coughs and then pulls a face as he swallows definitely seem like bad signs. He wonders if it’s pneumonia.

As he disposes of the pot’s contents, Rick realises the pain in his hands and feet is now a stinging one, rather than the sharp burning pain he felt last night. He’s grateful for that, and when he crawls back under the curtain next to Kieren, he makes sure to rearrange the clothing over their feet to ensure they stay as warm as possible. Kieren is lying on his back, stifling a cough every now and then, so Rick can only find and take one hand in his. It still makes him feel a little better.

“I wish you could tell me what’s wrong,” he says, not meaning to sound as sad as he does. Kieren’s hand squeezes his a little, his head turning so he can look at Rick with big brown eyes that don’t look as terrified as Rick remembers from yesterday when he first found Kieren. He hopes that’s a good sign.

“I’m here. You can tell me if you need anything.” Rick wills Kieren to understand, but the guy just blinks, his eyes slowly falling shut as he seems to fall asleep again. It’s hard for Rick to stay awake to watch over him, but he does so as long as he can before he eventually slips under too.

.

Rick doesn’t know what changed, but when he wakes again Kieren is coughing, curled up on his side. It sounds much worse than an hour or two ago. Feeling helpless, Rick runs a hand reassuringly over Kieren’s shoulder, staying close to him.

“Water?” he offers. Kieren nods, giving Rick something useful to do. Rather than trying to lift and tip the cooking pot full of melted water, Rick just scoops some out using the cup and passes it over to Kieren, who is sitting up. Rick does a double take, staring in alarm as he sees blood smeared across Kieren’s lips. When he looks at Kieren’s gloves, he realises one is wet with blood.

“Your wound?” he asks, afraid. Kieren is docile, and doesn’t resist as Rick hastily shifts his clothing aside and checks the dressing. It’s fine, still in place. Some blood has soaked through all the layers, but not that much.

Dread tears through Rick as he works it out where the blood has come from.

“Oh god,” Rick breathes, staring at Kieren. He’d seen men drown on their own blood before, and wonders how long it had been seeping into Kieren’s lungs – all night? Since falling earlier? At least with wounds you could see where to press to try and keep the blood where it should be, but like this… Rick doesn’t know what to do. How long do they have left?

Kieren clearly can’t go anywhere, so Rick pushes aside his fear and focuses on making the room comfortable, which means a fire. Rick goes to quickly collect what little usable wood is left in the other top floor bedroom, finding his hands much better than last night, before starting on the furnishings in the room they are occupying. The result makes an acceptable pile, and lifting the pot of water from the coal bucket, Rick digs in his things for a lighter. When Kieren starts coughing again, Rick leaves his task for a moment, taking one of the garments they’d used in the night to cover their feet and giving it to Kieren. He feels useless, so turns back to his task and gets a modest flame going, leaving it with big enough pieces of wood to keep it going for a short while. The dark blue cloth Rick gave Kieren isn’t dark enough to hide the stain of blood Rick notices when he looks back to his companion.

Rick wants to ask what the hell to do, but can’t bring himself to speak. His voice will betray how scared he is, even more clearly than his expression must be doing already. Instead, he reaches out for Kieren’s hand and gently removes the wet gloves, copying Kieren’s actions last night as he secures them around the fire bucket with a strip of cloth to dry. He then removes his own so they won’t get wet as he takes the unfinished bottle of whisky and uses it sparingly to clean the traces of blood from Kieren’s hands. Having done a passable job, he looks up at Kieren’s face, wearing what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

“There,” he says softly.

“There,” Kieren repeats. It makes it easier to smile.

“Clean hands,” Rick proclaims, even if they’re not entirely clean.

“Clean hand,” Kieren echoes, the last letter not quite making it. He smiles weakly at Rick. It’s a game; they can distract themselves. He holds his hands up, freeing them from Rick’s. “Hand.”

“Hands,” Rick corrects. He holds on hand up, then the other joins it. “Hand. Hands.”

Kieren nods, starting to cough. He holds the cloth over his mouth, trying to hide the stains when he lowers it again. Rick tries not to look. Kieren then acts as if nothing had happened, pointing at the fire and saying his word for it.

“Fire,” Rick supplies. Kieren echoes it, repeating ‘hands’ too. He then pulls an exaggerated smile, his finger tracing an upward curve in front of his face to make it clear which word he wants to learn next.

“Smile.”

Kieren gives a genuine one as he repeats the word. He then presses a hand over his chest. Rick could guess at what Kieren wants to know, but the gesture is vague and he hesitates. When Kieren lightly taps the same spot twice in quick succession, Rick understands clearly.

“Heart.”

That seems to be enough, and Kieren stops asking but instead repeats the words, along with his own for each of the things. Rick repeats them as best he can, finding them strange on his tongue. It becomes a softly spoken chant between them: hands, hands; fire, fire; smile, smile; heart, heart. They’re smiling, forgetting themselves for a minute, until another bout of coughing seizes Kieren and he curls forward in pain and effort. Frightened by the violence of it, Rick reaches out, his hand on Kieren’s shoulder and wishing he could somehow make it okay.

All he can do is offer Kieren some more water, which he heats a little by holding it near the fire, and then help him lie down, giving him a new cloth for the blood that is being coughed up. Kieren thankfully doesn’t cough for another few minutes, but when he does, Rick fears just how much strength Kieren is losing. After the fourth fit of coughing, Rick knows Kieren can't go on like this for much longer. He’d like to go search the neighbouring houses for something that might help – he honestly has no idea what – but Kieren doesn’t want him to go. He grabs for Rick the one time he tries to move away, the fear that he keeps tampered down flaring up as he desperately begs Rick to stay. Rick stays.

What feels like a lifetime later, but was probably just an hour or two, Rick hears an unfamiliar engine in the distance. A strange mix of dread and hope grip him, and he sits bolt upright at the sound. He sees Kieren’s eyes widen as he hears it too. It has to be military.

And then Rick knows he has to leave. It doesn’t matter who is out there, they might have a medic with them. The sound is coming slowly closer, although Rick doesn’t go to the window to try and see. Instead, he looks at Kieren, trying to find something non-essential and identifying that he can take. There isn’t anything – perhaps his insignia? Rick points at it, then his own, trying to make Kieren understand. If it’s not Rick’s own countrymen out there, he needs to be able to communicate without words that Kieren is here and needs help. If there’s proof of someone in the direction Rick points out to them, hopefully they’ll look.

There’s a small flick knife in the bag on his discarded belt, and Rick quickly searches for it, upsetting the other contents – some letters and a photo from home that are useless right now – as he does. Blade in hand, Rick shows Kieren what he’s doing, cutting at his own regimental insignia until the piece comes away in his hand. He then moves closer to Kieren to do the same, pausing for permission. Kieren nods, eyes never leaving Rick, and Rick makes quick work of it. When both fabric patches are in his hand, he holds his own out to Kieren. He’s not sure why, as he’s the one about to go looking for help, but the exchange seems only fair. As soon as Kieren takes it, Rick is looking around, trying to locate the whitest bit of fabric they have. The strip of old nightdress tied around the fire bucket is closest, although has a bloodstain from the gloves it’s pressing to the hot metal. Rick unfastens it, giving Kieren back his gloves and wrapping the fabric around his fist as he rearranges a few things, shoving some more pieces of wood into the fire and making sure that the cup and pot of water are close enough for Kieren to reach if he needs them. He doesn’t know how long he will be gone. From outside, the vehicles are louder, now distinguishable as more than one, and Rick looks towards the window.

“Rick!”

Kieren’s pleading cry draws Rick’s attention away from what he’s about to do and back to the reason he’s doing it. Kieren is looking at him with wide, frightened eyes, his breathing coming fast. He starts coughing again, one hand lifting the bloody cloth to his mouth while the other grips tightly onto Rick’s insignia. Looking at the pale, drawn features twisting in pain as Kieren coughs violently, Rick knows he is doing the right thing. He moves closer, his hand closing gently over Kieren’s.

“It’ll go get help,” he says reassuringly, really just for Kieren’s sake. Rick finds himself oddly calm. It’s a chance, but he’ll take it.

When the coughing stops and Kieren looks at him, Rick wonders what the urgent, desperate words that are being said mean, or are asking of him. Kieren is trying to sit up, dropping the soaked cloth as he grasps the front of Rick’s uniform. As gently as he can, Rick helps him sit up, although Kieren doesn’t let go. A moment later, Rick finds himself being kissed full on the mouth.

He’s too stunned to pull away. He’s aware of the feeling of the smudge of blood that was on Kieren’s lips transfers to his own, and realises that, for someone who’s dying, he has never felt so much life in a kiss before. He can feel the energy that is behind it – everything that Kieren is, his pain and desperation. When Kieren’s breaks away, it’s just for a moment, because Rick chases after the touch, finding it again and returning the kiss with as much honesty as he can. He doesn’t understand this, and it lasts just a few short seconds before there’s distance between them again, but the moment stays with Rick. It’s something he can’t even find the words in his own language to describe, but he knows they both understand perfectly.

And then he leaves. Rick doesn’t need anything – just the whitish cloth and insignia in his hand – so he stands, focus on Kieren until he has to turn to leave the room.  It doesn’t get easier to put one foot in front of the other. Rick glances briefly at the doorway on the first floor landing on the way down, but keeps going to the ground floor without stopping. He tugs the makeshift alarm system out of the way so he can leave the door open behind him as he exist. As soon as he’s outside, he raises his voice and hands, letting the thin material hang from his fist.

“I’m unarmed. Don’t shoot. I need a medic. Please don’t shoot.”

He repeats the words as he walks down the centre of the street, not hiding. A block away, he comes face to face with four loaded guns pointing directly at him. They’re not his countrymen. They’re Kieren’s.

“Please don’t shoot, I surrender,” he begs. “There’s a man. He needs your help.”

Perhaps he should have asked Kieren the words for ‘wound’ and ‘blood’, he realises too late. One of the men is shouting at him, and Rick can’t understand. He falls to his knees.

“Please, there’s a man who needs your help.”

As someone approaches him, Rick carefully opens his hand, showing them the insignia. The man bristles as Rick moves, wary of perhaps a concealed grenade. Rick doesn’t know, but as the guy sees the material in Rick’s hand he starts talking rapidly, probably asking Rick where he got it, but Rick can’t answer him.

“He needs help,” he repeats, tagging on Kieren’s nationality. He then glances back in the direction he’s come and achingly slowly turns the hand not holding the pitiful surrender flag so he can point towards his chest. He then gives an exaggerated cough and slowly takes the bloodied part of the cloth in his hand, moving it towards his mouth and making a point of showing the blood after doing so. All the while, he’s afraid of being shot, but the fear isn’t for himself – it’s for Kieren, whose life depends on these men sparing Rick long enough for him to make himself understood. He repeats Kieren’s nationality, showing them the fabric he took from Kieren’s uniform again.

Finally, it seems to get a positive reaction. There is talking, an order given, and Rick is hauled to his feet. Rough hands search him for weapons, but there are none. He doesn’t even have his belt. He is then shoved with the barrel of a gun back in the direction he came from. He has to lead the way. He does so without hesitation, knowing that there is not ambush as his captors probably expect. At the door to the building, the man with his gun pointed at Rick’s head shouts into the building, and then walks Rick forward, clearing the rooms and using Rick as a shield. Nothing happens: the drawing room, the kitchen, the yard, the stairway, the first bedroom, the second, the third, up to the next floor…

Rick is relieved when they finally reach his goal and push into the room he and Kieren stayed in, the reason for Rick guiding the soldiers here becomes apparent. Kieren tries to speak as soon as he sees them, but starts coughing and fighting to stop the involuntary action as his lungs expel the blood. He can’t, and Rick has to watch from a distance, finding himself forced to his knees again while someone shouts back down the stairs, presumably announcing all clear.

A minute later, more people enter the room, a medic going to Kieren’s side. The man obviously in charge appears in the doorway, looking over the room and then issuing some orders. Rick is made to stand, no doubt to be taken away. He hears Kieren speaking urgently, stopping the commander from leaving although his tone is different – it’s clear and concise without being emotional. He is clearly trying to appeal to rational men rather than compassionate ones. Whatever it is, it seems to have worked. Rick is given an intense, calculating look, and then the guy nods. What it means, Rick doesn’t know, but he’s forced back down the stairs and out into the street, where he is pushed to his knees once again and can do nothing but wait to find out what his fate will be.

Whatever happens, he knows he’s done the right thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no Chapter 2, just an an outline of what would happen if I wrote more of this.


	2. What Follows After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just my very messy thoughts. Probably boring/confusing to read, but I often think details out and never write them down. Thought this time it would be interesting to give you guys the option to see what I came up with.  
> I ramble a lot.

So, if anyone picked up on the minute clues (they're tiny), you might have worked out that Rick is German. Kieren is Russian. While I checked the similarity between certain words in Russian and German, the date and place didn't matter too much when writing, so I didn't fret about them. In the back of my mind it's winter '44/45 and Poland, but that doesn't have any bearing on the fic, just what would happen after. Namely, Rick becoming a Prisoner of War.

It's hard to know the exact numbers of German POWs who died in the USSR - at least 1 in 10 (conservative Soviet estimates), although it could be as high as 1 in 3. However slight, the odds are in favour of surviving. If I were writing more of this, Rick would survive, being released a year after the war ended. He's not in great shape, and, as well as being badly underfed, would have lost three of his toes and the tips of two of his fingers to frostbite. He just wants to go home and recover from what he's endured.

Kieren would have been spared having to return to the front line, and as he recovered he would have learnt German (he'd already mastered English). Rick left pretty everything in that house, including his bread bag (small bag attached to his webbing belt that was used for storing rations, personal items, etc), which had letters from home in it. Kieren has it now, and at first he would have enlisted the help of a friend (who would also teach him German) to write to Rick's family and tell them how Rick had saved his life at the cost of his own freedom. He won't expect her to, but Rick's mum writes back, and they correspond a few times before Janet passes on the news she's received: that Rick is still alive and is being repatriated.

It's completely crazy, but Kieren travels to Germany, and is there with Janet (Bill passed away without access to the medical care he needed) when Rick comes home. The very first words he says to Rick, in German, are 'I wanted to thank you'. Rick obviously can't believe what he's seeing or hearing, but Kieren's words break him out of his daze and he clings to both Kieren and his mum for a long time, speechless. Back at home, Rick eventually starts talking when Kieren takes his hands and smooths over them, not letting go. Rick tells his mum he just had a long, rough journey back. He doesn't want her to know what he's been through. He can trust Kieren with that, although doesn't really want to talk about it. Kieren is okay. That's all that matters.

It's not as if Rick can ever forget the fact they kissed, but everything feels different. He doesn't know if it can happen again, and is frightened that if he tries he will be pushed away, or that it won't feel as real as it did a year and a half ago. He's also afraid of what will happen if anyone ever finds out, so he does nothing - at least not until a few nights later and Kieren is talking about heading home. They're alone in the kitchen, and when Rick leans in, pressing close to Kieren, he's kissed back with just as much enthusiasm and need that the two of them can't pull apart. Rick doesn't quite understand it - he spent all that time in a labour camp with only the memory of Kieren and the thought of his mother to keep him going, but Kieren clings to Rick as if he lived through the same kind of ordeal. He hasn't - Kieren has been free to live his life and think about everything other than Rick, who realises it's perhaps gratitude Kieren is expressing.

In the end, Kieren doesn't leave. He never leaves the job he manages to get with the intention of raising enough money to go back to Russia comfortably. Instead, the money is spent on helping his own family move. Before the Iron Curtain falls, Kieren's mum, dad and sister move west. They're a creative, artistic family, and it's not exactly easy living in West Germany, but it's better than their lives would have been if they'd remained in Russia. With a few carefully gotten documents, Kieren's family are added to Rick's under the pretence that their mothers are cousins. Sue and Steve don't have great German, and Steve struggles for a job, but Sue works as a seamstress. Jem almost explodes at the freedom she finds, obsessing over music and dance and embracing every change in fashion that comes along. She eventually settles down a little and gets a job in a record store. Living in the country of a defeated enemy is still strange for her, and for a while she's not sure what to think of the men. She doesn't forgive as easily as Kieren, and still remembers friends she grew up with who died in the war.

Kieren gets a new job at a cinema, managing the projections, and often sneaks Rick and Jem in. Rick manages to become an accomplished mechanic, despite the missing tips of two of his fingers. Some wounds won't heal or fade, and there are still experiences that haunt him, but it slowly becomes easier to let go - especially as he somehow still has Kieren. He doesn't let himself think about what might have happened if they'd never met [he'd have died in combat], or if he'd had shot Kieren [he would still have died in combat, and lived the time between shooting an unarmed young man and his own death feeling guilt-ridden at his actions, no matter how much he tried to justify them], but when Rick looks at the guy who is now his closest friend, he knows he owes everything he is to him.

Homosexuality is definitely a no-no, but Rick never really thinks of himself that way. Somehow what they share doesn't fit into anything anyone else can label or understand. Rick, Kieren and Janet moved (too many memories) not long before the rest of Kieren's family arrived, so as far as people are concerned, Rick and Kieren are second cousins. They don't know what happened during the war, and Rick and Kieren don't want them to. It's no one's business. Their families have an idea, of course, and know Rick and Kieren are incredibly close, but they don't out them to anyone. Rick sometimes wonders what his dad would think, or how people might react if they ever knew. Not that their reactions would change anything - Kieren makes Rick feel stronger, more complete, so he won't let go of that for anything.

The (happy) end.


End file.
